


Floréal

by MamzelleCombeferre



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:49:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamzelleCombeferre/pseuds/MamzelleCombeferre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do not move.”<br/>“Why?<br/>“Just don’t.” </p>
<p>Grantaire sketches Floreal in his rooms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Floréal

“Do not move.”

“Why?

“Just don’t.”

Grantaire pulls out some paper and a large board to balance it on. With a broken pencil stub he begins sketching furiously. She tries to turn her head to look once, but he grunts disapprovingly so she stops. The light from his small window dusts her shoulders, shadows pooling in her collarbones. Her curls, disheveled from their windy walk from the café they had met at back to his rooms, but tied back tightly so as to allow her to keep working without their disruption. A thick black band tames the shorter ones up front, restraining the curls he saw tumble down when she was working, and once in his bed. Her mouth is firmly set, but with a minute up turn at the corners, betraying her desire to laugh.

“What is so funny?” Grantaire asks, slightly indignant.

“You’re drawing me.” She says, breaking into a full smile now, but still not moving her head. “You have never done that before, and you always look so unbearably serious when you draw.”

“Art is serious business you know. No time for mirth.”  He says, doing his best impersonation of Gros who was known for his melancholic seriousness. “No laughter, no light, just classical allusions and more horses.” His impersonation breaks down at the end, and he chuckles.

“There are no horses in your atelier, M. Grantaire.” She drawls in her best attempt at wealthy airs.

“There are no horses needed when I have you sitting here.” He says, picking his pencil up once more. She looks for second like she might respond, but then sits back, her mouth closing into a serious line again. They sit there for hours, till the sun begins to set, and he has to light several candles to [continue](http://mamzellecombeferre.tumblr.com/post/68496424835/i-think-i-just-wrote-floreal-minific). When he is finished, she smiles, softly now, tinged with exhaustion from sitting still for so many hours uninterrupted. He does not understand the concept of breaks, not taking any himself and so not thinking to offer any to her.

“Here.” He hands the paper to her as she gathers her items to leave. “It is rough, but I hope you find it of suitable likeness.”

She took it gently, holding it like one holds old papers from the library. Her expression doesn’t change at first, but when it does she looks pleased. There she is, her curls, her face, her long neck and small shoulders, curved just slightly inward from years of leaning over to mend [clothing](http://mamzellecombeferre.tumblr.com/post/68496424835/i-think-i-just-wrote-floreal-minific). The whiteness of her dress and the goldness of the ribbons at her elbows is clear, though the paper is more brown then white, and she wonders how Grantaire manages to create color where there is none. “It is beautiful.” She says, handing it back, and slipping out the door before he can respond.

“You are beautiful.” He whispers to the fleeting aura of her presence. Turning around, he places the drawing on the table, and starts on mixing paints. Months later, when it is done, he paints on the back, in letters so small they are hardly noticeable, one word, not his name or any form of it, but just Floréal.

**Author's Note:**

> Grantaire is much younger here. This takes place very early into their friendship, maybe eight months to a year or so after Grantaire first comes to Paris to study under Gros. He is much younger, only 17ish, and a much different person from who he will become when we first meet him in the brick. If you’re interested in hearing more about my Grantaire head canons, I’ll make another post about those, but Floreal was amongst the first people he met in Paris, and this takes place not too long after that. (Also this is hideously rough. I just wrote it in all but half an hour. Sorry for that.)


End file.
